Redemption
by snelbyshyder
Summary: It's been over a year since Aelin sacrificed herself to Queen Maeve for the safety of her friends. The Court of Terrasen has finally come to rescue her and Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, King of Terrasen, will, at last, be reunited with his mate, his wife. But so much can change in just a year, can't it? And one little thing will change Terrasen's future forever.


The only sound in the room was the blood dripping off the edge of his sword, but that couldn't overpower the roaring in Rowan's ears.

Maeve was dead, her broken body a crumpled pile at his feet. Her head lay near the dais, nothing but a long, stain of blood separating the cold, cruel face from the once powerful body.

The female who had once been his blood-sworn queen had died by his own sword, and he found he felt no remorse for the action, only that he had shown far too much mercy to his former majesty.

Heavy, pounding footsteps rushed down the hall and Aedion ran into the room, taking in the carnage and the killing calm still settled on Rowan's harsh features. Pine green eyes met turquoise ringed in gold. "Lysandra found her scent, she's not in the dungeons."

It was enough to spur Rowan back into action, taking off after Aedion. Blood coated nearly every surface in the stone castle. Guards he'd known for centuries, some he'd even trained himself, laid unmoving on the ground. He couldn't spare them a thought, as the two warriors barreled through the halls. Aedion led the way, but only just.

This had been his home for far longer than the man next to him had been alive, and he knew the sadistic nature of Maeve. She would do anything to torment his queen and knew precisely what her weakness was. Him.

As soon as they turned the corner, the hall leading to Rowan's own former chambers, he shifted, ice and wind carrying him faster than legs ever would. Aedion fell back, allowing his queen and brother their reunion in what little way he could. The ghost leopard slunk from an open doorway on silent paws and he swore he could see tears in her green eyes.

The scent of him in these halls was still strong, if not a bit stale, almost overbearing, though it was missing the wildness of fire it now held. The fae who had lived in this castle was not the same male he was now, Aelin's scent and effect ever present. The scent in the wings was that of a fae warrior, of course, and of pine and wind and snow, but it no longer belonged to him. It would be a constant reminder to anyone with fae blood in their veins that he had been here, though, that he had lived here.

Like Aelin, for instance.

Reaching his quarters, he shifted back into his fae form and twisted the lock until it broke in his powerful hands, the door swinging open easily, and her scent slammed into him like a battering ram. It almost brought him to his knees, the scent of his beloved bombarding his senses after over a year. "Aelin!"

He couldn't pinpoint which set of rooms she was in. He ran to his own suite, finding it practically untouched since his departure from Doranelle. Frantically, he began to search the abandoned rooms in the Whitethorn wing of the castle. Her scent began to get stronger and stronger, but it was mixed with something he'd never experienced, something sweet and vulnerable and everlasting. He began to hear a soft, mewling noise.

At first, he thought that his Fireheart was crying, that they had truly broken her. But as he came closer to a door left slightly ajar, he realized that the cry did not, could not, belong to that of a grown woman. He moved slowly, gods, so slowly, that by the time he reached for the door, he wasn't sure that he was even moving on his own accord anymore. The pull of his mate, of his wife's scent, was the lone thought as he pushed the door open.

The room was no more than a glorified closet. Bars cut the room in half, allowing no more space than would fit a small bed and a wash basin. There were no windows to allow in light, a lone candle lit high in the room illuminated the small area. Chains and shackles had been drilled into the wall, however, they laid unlocked on the thin mattress.

In the corner, a small figure was curled in on itself, quietly singing in a long forgotten tongue. The blonde hair was tangled, dirty and matted, longer than the last time he'd laid eyes on it. The pointed tips of her ears stuck out through her limp hair. The wicked, deep scars on her back, the now ruined tattoos he'd given her with his own hands were visible through the thin white shift she wore. She was so focused on the song that she didn't hear his approach, didn't hear him unlock the cell, even with her fae hearing.

He could hardly believe it. She was here, she was alive, not unharmed, but he hadn't deluded himself to believe there was a chance of that. His throat was thick, scarcely able to truly speak, much less say the words he'd been longing to say since she was taken from him. So he did what he could and breathed her name.

"Aelin."

She stiffened, clutching tightly out of instinct to protect whatever was in her arms. She glanced over her shoulder and Rowan was home.

Her turquoise and gold eyes welled up with tears as she whispered, "Rowan." The word was nearly impossible to hear, scratching its way out of her throat as if she hadn't had water in weeks, but it was the most beautiful noise he'd heard in over a year. But that breakable, beautiful, unknown scent blasted his senses again and as she turned her body towards his, he fell to his knees.

The whimpering child against her breast couldn't be older than six months, and as it fussed and cried, the candlelight shone on the soft, silver hair. Aelin watched as Rowan, as her strong, warrior prince, collapsed to his knees at the sight of the squirming baby in her arms.

Rowan could only stare as Aelin looked at him, at the love and trust and surprise that he truly did come for her, as it all shown on her face, as the tears began to slip down her cheeks. Before even the first had the chance to fall, he was there, wiping them away with his thumbs, mumbling into her hair, "Fireheart. I'm here, Fireheart."

At the slight commotion of their reunion, the baby began to fuss and Aelin looked down to him, cooing and crooning in a voice that Rowan had never heard, yet wholly loved in that moment all the same. His hand went to rest on his mate's shoulders and she smiled up at him. Despite her pale skin, despite the dark circles under her eyes and the malnourished, gaunt figure, that smile was gorgeous and spectacular and ripped the gods damned air out of his lungs.

He glanced down at the baby and Ashryver eyes looked back at him. Rowan reached down, gods, he was shaking, and ran his fingertips over the soft skin of his cheek. The fussing stopped almost as soon as the physical contact was made and Rowan crouched to the ground, settling on his knees in front of his wife and his…

His son.

He could barely find his voice. "What's his-?"

"Lowell," she whispered, "The young wolf." Her fingers brushing his silver hair off of his forehead, hair so much like his own. Gods, he had so much hair. "He was born with it," she said, answering his unspoken thought.

He watched as she pressed feather soft kisses to his forehead and to each of his pointed ears, a sign of the strong fae blood running in his veins, and he felt as if his heart were going to burst. He didn't deserve this blessing, couldn't. After what had happened to Lyria, what had happened because of him, after all of the pain he had caused in the centuries since, the gods would never give him this. Carefully, oh so carefully, he wrapped his arms around her thin body, his own scent mingling with that of his wife's and his son's, and Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, Prince of Doranelle and King of Terrasen, thanked the gods and wept.


End file.
